


sugar pie, honey bunch

by giucorreias



Series: flufftober 2018 [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Healing, Flufftober 2018, Future Fic, M/M, Softer Boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-07-23 11:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16158254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giucorreias/pseuds/giucorreias
Summary: Neil never expected to be happy, but he is.





	1. breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys.
> 
> This is for the #Flufftober, you can find the prompt list [here](http://giucorreias.tumblr.com/post/178632259369/so-i-was-looking-around-and-noticed-there-were-a). I made it myself earlier in Semptember, since I couldn't find an updated list. 
> 
> I couldn't decide which fandom to write for, so I actually chose two, which means that you'll only have updates here every other day. Regardless, I hope you like it.
> 
> Today's prompt was " _Breakfast_ "

Neil wakes up early—he always wakes up early to run. It's going to be a beautiful day, sunny and hot, but it's early enough that the temperature is still mild and the streets are still mostly empty, the way he likes it.

Andrew wakes up as Neil gets up from their bed, one eye blearily squinting against the morning light, the other still closed. Despite the fact that this is _routine_ , by now, he's clearly annoyed at having been woken up. Andrew says nothing, just huffs and fluffs his pillow, changes his position in bed. By the time Neil is done putting on his running gear and turns to kiss him goodbye—he’d started doing it ironically, months ago, a joke about normalcy and established relationships, how it would never apply to then until it did—Andrew is already back to sleep.

Neil smiles.

He walks past King Fluffkins, a white hurdle sleeping by the door of their bedroom. He takes the keys from their bowl (and has to go back for his cellphone, that has less than fifteen percent charge, which is enough to last him until the end of his run), then locks the door as he slinks out of the house, silent despite not having to be. Andrew’s car is parked by the sidewalk, the exact same place where it was left last night. It’s sleek and expensive and doesn’t really fit the picture of small suburban houses the neighborhood builds.

That barely even makes Neil antsy, anymore.

He nods at Mrs. Galloway, a mother of two on her forties, who's walking her dog—“ _Good morning, Neil, how is Andrew?_ ”—then runs beside Hugh, the next door neighbor who took up running mostly due to his influence, for a while. Despite the fact that neither of them speak a word, it's companionable, comfortable. Neil waves when he speeds and leaves him behind.

He could run these streets with his eyes closed, at this point in life. He knows which shops he's running past, who's gonna be working on them by the time he's going back. He’ll enter one of them, maybe talk to the cashier, buy a bottle of water, maybe some ice cream if Andrew answers his message and there is none in the fridge.

 

It's an hour or two before he's home again. The sun is warmer, now, his face is red and he's dripping sweat, but It's fine. He unlocks the door and goes back inside, welcomed by the sounds of Andrew puttering about the kitchen.

Sir Fat Cat Mccaterson rubs himself on Neil’s legs, meows, and Neil crouches to scratch him behind the ears, coos at him. He walks towards the kitchen, then, leans against the doorframe, still dripping sweat, already smiling again.

“I'm home,” he says, softly, at Andrew’s back. Another ironic ritual, that didn’t really fit them until it did.

“I heard you,” is the answer, less soft but not less _ironic_ (it’s a reference to how Neil isn’t a ghost, anymore, that walks through the world without actually changing it. To how Andrew knows he’s around, because he wasn’t silent. It’s a _concession_ , that this is really a home and Neil is in it). Andrew doesn't turn, he's busy settling some ingredients on the counter. “Have you eaten?”

“No.”

Neil walks up to Andrew, loud footsteps indicating intent.

“If you touch me with your sweaty hands I am going to _stab_ you,” he warns. And then, almost affectionately, adds: “ _Junkie_. Go take a bath while I finish breakfast.”

Neil laughs. Life isn’t perfect, for them. It might never be. But it's _fine._

For once in his life, Neil actually means that.


	2. hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A foray into Neil's asexuality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For flufftober's day 3 "Hot".
> 
>  
> 
> I'm asexual myself, and wanted to explore this side of Neil's, because it is so rare to find characters that are canonically ace! I'm also really happy with how this turned out, which is surprising, because today's prompt was like, one of the hardest. I hope you guys like this as much as I do!

In general lines, Neil knows that Andrew is hot. It’s not an intuitive knowledge: it’s not something his body tells him the moment he looks at his partner, all biological responses and instinctual cues. It’s an analysis, maybe. It’s looking at Andrew’s eyes, and Andrew’s mouth, and Andrew’s hands, and—

And remembering.

Andrew was the first person to offer him protection—real, actual protection, that didn’t require all that much out of him, except that he _be_ (the promise he made in return was a bargain, a red herring, an excuse for Andrew to keep an eye on Neil and stop him from running away). Andrew heard his secrets, one by one, and kept them safe and tucked away; Andrew unravelled him, truth by truth, until Nathaniel was nothing but a shell of a past and Neil was made real, like Pinocchio. No longer a wooden toy for his mother to mold. No longer a constellation of stolen traits and fake accents.

Andrew being hot is not at all about the way he looks.

 

(nobody ever understands what Neil’s talking about, when he tries to explain. How can a person that doesn’t swing and doesn’t swing and still doesn’t swing be so in love with a man like Andrew, who’s harsh and complicated and _unlovable?_ —how can their relationship not be about sexual attraction, how can _this_ not be about _sex_?)

(they can’t see the trust they built over shared truths and respected boundaries)

 

Andrew being hot is about—the steadiness of his eyes, heavy over Neil, seeing through his bullshit. It’s about the soft curve of his lips as they say _I told Neil to stay, leave Nathaniel buried in Baltimore with his father,_ as he calls him _Junkie,_ as he tells him _after all these years, you’re still a pipedream._

It’s about the warmth of Andrew’s—soft, ever so soft—touch, the pads of his fingers on his cheek as he asks _Yes or No_?, his palm on the back of Neil’s neck as an anchor point when the world is ever so harsh and Neil feels more like Nathaniel than himself. It’s, yes, about the snaked touches over his skin, lower, lower, lower—but those are an afterthought, a consequence, a result.

 

“ _Staring_ ,” Andrew says, eyes on the television, fingers scratching behind the ears of one of their cats. It’s a beautiful, warm Sunday, and they’re both sitting on the living room, watching a documentary about cars. Or, rather, they’re both sitting on the living room as Andrew watches a documentary about cars, and Neil watches Andrew.

Neil smiles.

“I was thinking,” he explains. That, and nothing else.

“ _Hm,_ ” he starts. On the screen, the narrator explains about Ford’s refusal in abandoning the Model T. Andrew turns, then, to look at Neil. There’s an upturn to the corners of his mouth that indicates he’s amused. “I didn’t know you could do that.” Another pause. “Yes, I think I can see the smoke coming from your ears.”

Neil snorts. He takes one of their cushions he’d been sitting on and throws it at Andrew’s head. Hits it. King Fluffkins hisses, annoyed, and jumps from Andrew’s lap to the floor. Neil throws another one.

“You know, the objective here is to avoid being hit.”

“You know,” Andrew responds. “Your sense of humor is not attractive.”

Neil approaches him.

“Yes or No, Andrew?”

The look Andrew sends him could whiter flowers. Neil keeps smiling, though, he keeps waiting. Consent, respect, trust. A moment later, Andrew says:

“Yes.”


	3. words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who said please that made you hate the word so much?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a not very explicit but more or less so description of sex, it's like six or seven words, but I thought I should maybe raise the rating to T. I also allude to Andrew's past at some points. As far as things go, though, this is like, pretty safe. Also, I promise this is fluff.
> 
> Today's prompt was " _words_ ".

Neil once asked him _who said please that made you hate the word so much_? Andrew remembers that moment, like he remembers almost every other moment of his life: with vivid attention to details. He remembers that he looked at Neil, silently, while he weighed the pros and cons of answering his question—Neil, with wild hair and shiny eyes, shapeless like smoke, hand extended towards him, almost touching but not quite (an important distinction to make). He remembers swallowing the trepidation and trying to bury the memory even deeper inside his brain, so he didn’t have to deal with any of it.

He remembers failing, for a moment.

He remembers saying _I did_ , the echo of the sound of his voice—the voice of a much younger version of him—confusing itself with the present, there before he could stop it. He remembers fighting to have his face remain impassive, he remembers wanting to leave.

That seems like more than a lifetime ago.

 

 

He’s sitting down on Aaron’s living room, legs crossed—armbands empty, for once—, as Lily, Aaron’s five year-old daughter, organizes a tea party between a stuffed unicorn, a Barbie and a doll with Kevin’s face (plus homemade Fox clothes, apparently, which Neil finds endlessly amusing).

It’s Thanksgiving.

Katelyn is settling down the dishes on the table, mittens in hand; Aaron’s left to buy something they forgot to buy in advance—Andrew didn’t really pay enough attention for him to remember what it is—, and Neil’s having a very serious discussion about the advantages of having a tea party with fake chamomile tea or fake green tea (auburn hair falling over his face, soft smile on the corner of his lips, hands moving wildly as he explains about that time he lived in India with his mother and learned how to brew tea. _This_ , Andrew knows, this he will remember in detail. He _wants_ to).

Lily sets her teapot down with a soft _clink_. She looks around the room, quickly, and her eyes zero on something behind Andrew’s head. She gets up, perhaps a little wobbly, and walks to Andrew, puts her little hands on his knees.

“Uncle Andrew,” she says, though she can’t quite pronounce his name properly and it comes out a little butchered. “Can you get me another tea cup, for the tea party?”

Andrew is about to answer her, when she adds, with a little frown:

“ _Please_?”

It’s like the world stops. Lily doesn’t notice, too young to have had this conversation, but there’s a sudden tension on the room—on the way Neil’s shoulders stiffen, and Katelyn carefully sets down the tray on the table, quick steps towards her daughter.

 

 

( _Please keep the door closed_ , said the sign on the ice cream parlor he visited two days ago, Neil’s warm hand on his as he opened the door to get inside. Neil chose something simple and almost tasteless, just so Andrew would get annoyed. _Please, Andrew, faster,_  Neil said, damp skin and all out of breath, legs spread and back against the cool tile of their bathroom. _Can you get me that can of soup, please_? asked an old lady, white hair and big brown glasses, maybe a month ago, as Andrew stood still on the supermarket’s isle, trying to decide between two different brands.

 _Who said please that made you hate the word so much?_ , asked Neil, once upon a time, a lifetime of years ago. It takes a while for Andrew’s mind to cycle through his memories—some soft, some good, some annoying, most bland—, and that gives him enough time to stop that train of thought before it goes… further)

 

 

“Sure,” Andrew answers, shrugging. He gets up, slowly (he’s not twenty anymore), and walks past Lily, walks past Neil. There’s a teacup—pink, flowery, cute—on the cupboard next to the table, just behind the place Katelyn had been (she’s currently standing in the middle of the room, eyes carefully tracking Andrew’s movement, ready to spring to her daughter’s defense).

Andrew touches two of his fingers against his forehead, on a salute, as he walks past her. He takes the girl’s damn teacup, carefully, the small, delicate thing fragile against his callouses. He won’t break it. Katelyn seems to have decided that everything’s fine, now, and walks back to the kitchen. Andrew goes back to his niece.

“Here,” he hands it to her.

“Oh, no, uncle Andrew!” She says. For a moment, he thinks that maybe he got the wrong fucking cup, which is fucking annoying, but he is actually ready to get back up again and search for another one. Lily smiles, though, toothless. “This one’s for you.”

Neil snorts.

“That’s a pretty cup you have there, Andrew," (these are the words Andrew had told him, just as Lily had handed him his own cup when they arrived). "It suits you.”

 

 

Andrew regrets not bringing his knives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i looked at this chapter and i was like, what if andrew was part of a tea party. and then i had to. i had to. i won't apologize.


	4. pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On King Fluffkins and Sir Fat Cat McCatterson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I'm late. But! Here it is, flufftober's very own day 8, pets. I haven't actually revised this, sorry, but I really need to sleep. I'll revise in the morning.

King Fluffkins and Sir Fat Cat McCatterson were both very deliberate choices, despite the fact that many of the foxes believe Neil had just decided to adopt the cats one day and then force their presence upon Andrew. It doesn’t matter that Neil would never do such a thing—he asks and pleads and baits, he trades and promises. He never assumes, he never forces—, nor that Andrew would have never stood for it: they decided that it happened that way and so, in their mind, it did.

Andrew doesn’t care—Neil hasn’t figured out if this is actually true or not, as Andrew has a history of pretending not to care about things when he does, he _does_ —, but it bothers Neil a great deal that his friends think he’d disrespect Andrew’s autonomy like that. This is their house, their _home_. They worked very hard to build a safe space, with absolutely no reminders to either of their horrible pasts, a place where they can be broken together—where they can start healing their scars together.

Their cats are a part of it.

It wasn’t an easy choice: they travel a lot, after all, for their games, and sometimes it’s both of them at the same time. Andrew is not a very patient person, by nurture, and he has some serious (and understandable) boundary issues that an animal is not capable of understanding or respecting. They’re not, either of them, _good_ people—they’ve seen the worst of the world and they’ve been marked by it. They understand death and violence and hate and fear. They’re not the best people to be trusted with the lives of innocent, trusting creatures that can’t really defend themselves.

The cats are a part of _it_ . Little bundles of—trust and feels and responsibility. Proof that they can care for something. Proof that they can take care _of_ something. Signs that for all that the world has marked them negatively, they’re still… fine.

 

(Neil gets home to the picture of Andrew sleeping on his stomach, body sprawled on the sofa, one cat between his legs and the other on his back—it’s been a very long week, as his team has lost their last game and Neil is aching all over, but this is such a _welcome home_ )

(Neil wakes up from a nightmare, the phantom feel of knives still against his skin, the tightness on his stomach feeling a lot like nausea. The bed is empty, as Andrew is away on a game, and for a moment Neil feels so very _lonely_ , but there’s the telltale of footsteps against the floor and then a creek on the bed, and King Fluffkins commandeers Andrew’s pillow as if he belonged there, which he _does_ )

(Andrew’s niece wobbles towards the kitchen, unsure steps and precarious balance—one step, two steps, she’s halfway there when she falls, noisily, and starts crying. Before Aaron can reach her, Sir Fat Cat McCatterson distracts her with something, and she _stops_ )

 

It wasn’t an easy choice, no—but it was a good one.


	5. holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ops.

Neil finds himself on one of those stupid team-themed stores, giving out autographs. It’ll be Christmas in a week or two and the PR woman—Stacy?—wanted him to get some positive media time after he ran his mouth off on an interview the week before. A part of today’s profits are going to charity or something and people seem to like that a lot.

The point isn’t that, though, the point is that Neil finds himself on one of those team-themed stores and there are a bunch of posters with his picture on it, where he’s taller than in real life and looks imposing with his racquet held over his shoulder, the ball under his foot. It’s not the first time he stumbles upon them—he’s been famous for a while, after all—, but it’s the first time he can’t make a joke at Andrew, as Andrew’s currently on a Christmas event of his own, hundreds of miles away and surrounded by people that aren’t Neil.

He jokes with Stacy about it, anyway, tells her that at least they photoshopped out the scars and she does laugh, amused if a bit unsure, but her laugh isn’t the right kind of laugh and Neil spends the rest of the night feeling out of sorts—the rest of the trip.

He buys one of the posters on impulse, hides it at the back of his suitcase, then forgets about it on the rush of flights, people and signatures.

  


He’s back beside Andrew by the 24th—they’re all together celebrating, him and Andrew and Aaron and Katelyn and Kevin and Nicky and Lily—and it’s not until they’re done eating, not until the people leave and Neil starts unpacking that he remembers he bought a poster of himself. It’s there, rolled up and nestled against the borders of his suitcase.

Andrew takes it, curious despite himself (and Neil recognizes his faces, after years and years of watching him closely). Andrew looks at it, the false figure of Neil freezed in time with a fake smile, and there’s a silent question in the air that he doesn’t really need to ask.

Neil shrugs. “I liked my face in it.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows, and Neil has to turn to look at him and the poster—half-folded shirt he had been unpacking held against the hideous christmas sweater Nicky had just gifted him. There’s a softness to Andrew’s face that indicates he’s thinking about a good memory, an upturn to his lips that indicates he’s amused.

 _This_ is the right kind of laugh, the one Neil had been waiting for, the one Stacy would never be able to give him. As Andrew says “They made your eyes asymmetrical,” rolling the poster back up and throwing it against his head, something settles inside of Neil, warm, and everything is right in the world again.

  


The clock ticks midnight, it’s Christmas—he’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i ever going to finish flufftober? eventually. am i going to finish it before next year's flufftober? unlikely.


End file.
